Some days are better than none

Ed, I quit. I gotta go put my head… I can’t… It’s killing me. It’s my fault. I take the blame. This all began with me telling you I wanted to do a current events site. I told you I did not want to do a “potery” blog. Because, I said, I hate poetry and so should you. But look at me. It’s coming out of my skin, man. A mote in Trump’s syphilitic psychodrama. You are too. Tell me you’re not.

Remember, it was the rage that made me turn the world away once before in order to write Godzilla. It took me several weeks longer than it should have because of all the fortifying. So I’ve changed my mind. I desire to be pure. I only want to live now in nature. Fuck the interesting times. I’m a poet now. I mean, sure, I still want an internet connection and all but…

You ask me that mid cruelest month? I remember quitting. I tried to do like you asked. You’ve been kind to me. Every time I stick my head up and look around… the second to last time he had already bombed an Iranian girls school. And now…? Leave me alone. You know as well as eye the demented and dementia-d fucked we are. Dude, I’m smoking cannabis like they’re growing it around the block in a big smelly building. Which they are. You get a sweet terpenes hit as soon as you turn left down CENSORED St. which also contains three independent retail outlets, two of them run by the nicest people you’d ever want to hand your money to. There’s not gonna be a cannabis shortage while people in cars with out of state Idaho plates fill the parking lots. It’s Here today. Here tomorrow. Here forever. Unlike segregation. I might’ve got lost in there somewhere but the point is I’m trying to quit. But I’ve changed my mind about everything. I’m a poet now. I want to die one. We know why we’re in this shitty war. Netanyahu gave him some kind of ear trophy.

I've really returned to Emily D, Ed. I'm reading her letters. I've never done that before. They're Unreal with Immortality! - She's at the Threshold, man. She never took one but I am her Faithful Husband and I'm expecting many children.

Time Passes
Tick Tock
I I I
I I I
I I I
v v v

Sunday
Monday
May

I’m answering an earlier post-it, Ed. I’ll give you what I had when I was still trying to Live in your World. I’ve got scraps and shards of windshield in body I can send if anybody remembers this person(?)

or is that quaint? So I’ll just send you the first thing I wrote after I saw this

Maybe you’ll see why I never published it. Or maybe now it’s fit to print. It was right after

I took this picture of Beardo on television that my fingers with great force typed:

My rage fills the mercury point of violent ideation. For instance, if you tell me you are ICE I imagine myself sticking a gun through your car window and blowing your head off while screaming at your still warm but fucking dead bitch body that I have absolute immunity. Speaking of screaming, the Vice President is on my screen doing just that, without the facts, libelously, the [nice smiling lady above in a body-cam pic uncovered later] was a domestic terrorist. I wish this was hyperbole…

What’s the date? has Minnesota indicted her murderer yet? Not at this me sticking my head up interval, right? But if you want old scraps… things that will make you wonder if they are even legal… some of the places my fingers took me peak stroke…?

I’m reading her letters, Here is a picture of part of a page. Read it. How charming it is without even trying. Dated Nov. 6, 1847 it is addressed to her friend Abiah Root. Emily is sixteen, will be seventeen next month and pens this, I assume with some dashes, from the Mount Holyoke Seminary where she will stay for only ten months. And

I will tell you my order of time for the day, new Ed, as you have been so patient with me. At 6 o’clock I need to pee but don’t want to get out of bed. I rise with a grudge and use an empty orange juice bottle at 7 making sure to put the cap back on properly. Then I push the button on the coffee pot. By 8 I’ve been sitting at my 24 inch monitor for an hour avoiding everything with whatever Youtube feeds me, maybe cat videos, something wholesome. At 8 1/4 after fending off the pressure on my spine and those curvy bones that make up my ass for as long as I can, I deeply resent the stairs between me and my toilet – where awaits this book – and climb to for my initial shit of the day.

Next to this book (unpictured) I keep a daily bowel movement chart. I wonder if Emily did as she got older. Probably not. Do edit me heavily, Ed, with jackboots and available curbs. “Last shit at _ _ _ _. AM/PM for _ _ _ Min”. Each page has room for 30 entries. I usually fill it up in about 7 3/4 days.


What was it she withdrew from later? That’s the big mystery. When they talk about Emily they talk about that. I might find nothing at the end of this E. D. journey but dashes and dead Words. I type as I read her letter. I’ve never read Pope’s Essay on Man or recited much of anything at any time interval rounded to the nearest 25th percentile. I suspect I have glanced at this historical work of wonder at some point in the past and declined to read it as I did when I googled it just now because I can always suffer at it later. I wonder how Poor Emily would have used her online time. I imagine she would be fascinated with Dorothy Gale and Scarecrows and flying over Rainbows. She might submit her whole Nobody to be subsumed by 16 yr old Judy Garland. I wish that for her as I wish it for Everybody. They say the victim of the real terrorists, Renee Good, was a poet.

Would Renee Good have published her shit diaries? I don’t know. I’ve never read anything of hers and don’t intend to because as you’ve just been reading I am literally anal. And because her final thrust as an accidental martyr is much more important than anything I’ll ever write or do.

What came next was Alex Pretti.

I wonder how suppressed this image is in your mind… Every cute thing I had been writing meant nothing. I knew I was Nobody. Nobody Too. I tore up my drafts. I got half out of my recliner with my joints ready to join. I started out fine. I wanted to be defined by them and Trump as my enemy. It was at this point, of course, the Trump war on Minnesota was already won – though I didn’t know it then – by the Nobody Minnesotans. Not by the governor. Not by the mayor of Minneapolis. The police? I’ve never been a fan of the Minneapolis Police Department ever since the first time I heard about them but I never expected the amount of whining that came from the chief at their frequent press conferences. His poor forces were so numerically overwhelmed by untrained paramilitary goons that just heaven forbid they can’t do a blessed thing about it. You’re on your own. Be sure to take lots of pictures of your abusers, citizens, and don’t block traffic because removing and arresting you is the only thing in our mandate we can provide. Fucking poltroons.

This was going to be my banner. It took me 12 seconds to rip it from the internet, 3650 hours to remember I had done so, and the worst 3 3/4 minutes to find, with a final 2 minutes to put here because there’s always an issue. Arms that want to go flailing or… then I heard birds and opened the window. That was a pleasant several seconds, I didn’t even count them. The little Nazi fucker pictured on the left is gone. He’ll be back for sure with some new version of right wing grievance grift.

I wrote a joke about him being offended by being called a Nazi. Not because he was being called a Nazi but since his roots are Italian he preferred Squadristi. That is not the joke. It is just a description of the content. The joke is maybe funnier but I can’t find it. I did a search on my computer. No, of course it’s not there. That means it’s in this pile of about 1000 loose papers I have piled on my desk and I don’t have the stomach to go through them. Just so you know, my handwriting is nearly illegible even to myself.

Gulag Kristi Noem is gone too – and her boyfriend Cory (tho is he really?). Her last brave act was to sit before congress and to conduct herself in a slightly more adult way than Pammy Bondi the attorney general of the united states (who is always in need of a time-out) – also gone – had done, which she managed to do with her cuckold sitting directly behind her for support all the while feeling naked without his tits. I wish Fellini was here to document but at least we got to enjoy this.

They tell me Steven Miller, whose face was all over the place six months ago, has gone missing.

Steven Miller’s head as I always imagine after the guillotine ripe for the kicking. Let’s put his face on soccer balls. Have a Fafo Championship. Enjoy your gas prices.

After the rank and file citizenry of Minnesota saved the country (for the time being) Trump sent that insane letter to Norway about Nobel Prizes and invading Greenland. This is about when the pimple began to grow on my face. I was still in the fight before then. This is also when the rest of the world realized that he is not only a childish low IQ gangster but actually fucking mad. Sorry, free world. There is nothing we can do about it right now. If only we had a parliamentary system. But you want content. Here is something I wrote: If I ever run out of coffee I can open my feed and wake up from the rage.

You have to hand it to him one thing. I wish I could do content creation like that motherfucker. The demented orange caked bulldog does great phone overnight while I cry and whimper. Have you ever looked at his Truth Social? Not that I do. How could I and stay sane? Ed, you should have hired him if you wanted insane production to an increasingly melted down ecosystem – or however you want to slopify any sense of meaning everywhere. Which I believe is our fate. What a fucking Sim. Great comedy in the Kremlin. Since my head is up at the moment I looked at today’s date, May 12, 2026 and have heard the descriptions of his mania which is as close as I can get. Luckily or whatever other useless adverb you want to throw at it someone was there to document the content for us without the actual text so that the rest of us will not have to expose ourselves to the horror

Hey. Thanks for voting Trump 49.81% of you, electing the felon pedophile brain pimple. The Iranians, who of course are winning this light-switch war, are far smarter and funnier than Trump. This is from some weeks ago but what the heck

Some moments of humor as the world burns. I’m mainly just trying to give you the funny stuff. The deep stuff is too hard. I know, Ed, I’m a disappointment. I just want to live in the world where I talk about how when I type the word disappointment, and I have typed it hundreds if not thousands of times, I often do it with two S-es and only one P… Which brings me to

86 47, Childfucker

I think we can say that. Right? Yeah. I feel good about saying that. I’ve always maintained that the thing that’s going to save us is how stupid they all are. La La La 8647, Cankles McChildfucker. When that day comes soon when I learn you are dead I am going to throw a party along with everyone else in the neighborhood. When you are dead we will all sing Ding Dong the douche is dead.

The big beautiful obituary
A whole cottage industry has sprung up to speculate on Donald Trump Death Watch.

Ding Dong the fascist douche
The fascist douche
The fascist douche
Ding Dong the fascist douche
Is dead
He's dead
The pedophile is dead
We're alive and you are dead
Ding Dong the douche is dead
He's dead He's dead
He's really, really dead
He's DEAD